


one small fraction of the main attraction

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 20:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Zelda waits up for Hilda after a date.





	one small fraction of the main attraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UbiquitousMixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/gifts).

> Group chat prompt.

Zelda’s already reorganized the parlor bookshelf by the Dewey decimal system, changed all the burnt out lightbulbs throughout the house, and taught several of Hilda’s familiars to sit pretty (because Vinegar Tom refuses to learn any trick but play dead). It’s 11:30pm, and Hilda is not home from her date yet.

Zelda takes the decanter and ice bucket to the music room so she doesn’t have to commute as she continues to souse herself and angrily pound out Rachmaninoff. There’s no reason she should be so very angry. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be in bed asleep already. She’d encouraged Hilda to go out, had dressed her for the occasion, had told her not to do anything she wouldn’t do, just like a good big sister should.

But she’s not a good big sister, is she? She thinks, fingers landing dissonant on the keys 16 bars into Preludes in C-sharp minor. Not only is Hilda the better pianist, but also she’s the better sister. Hilda’s never ridiculed her or killed her, never taken out her frustrations on her, never looked at her like a well-marbled and perfectly charred steak to be taken between her teeth and subsequently devoured. Zelda slams the keyboard closed, downs her whiskey, stalks back out into the hallway.

She paces for a few minutes, smoking and chastising herself for her perverse desires and her abominable actions she’d taken to haphazardly and probably ineffectually disguise them.

She ought to let Hilda have this bit of freedom from her. She ought to go to bed. But she hasn’t had enough to drink to pass out yet, and she can’t go to sleep knowing Hilda is somewhere else without that crutch.

She ends up taking the decanter and the ice bucket back to the parlor, where she sits on the floor and begins disassembling a lamp that’s been on the fritz. She’s not great with electrical intricacies, but it’s something to do, something to do with her hands and her mind.

It’s just before one, and Zelda’s got wires and wires laid out before her, when the front door whooshes open and slams closed. There’s a strong, melodic whistling—maybe a song from Oklahoma—and then a thump and then Hilda’s muted voice,

“—only leads to trouble.”

Zelda’s ears perk, follow each sound.

“Oof. Bless it!” And then a giggle. Shuffling steps. A rustling of fabric. Zelda deposits all the lamp parts and tools used to manipulate same onto the coffee table, straightens her spine against a leg of the divan.

There is a long silence then.

“Zelds?” Hilda whispers. “Is that you?”

Zelda curses herself for not having extinguished the light in the parlor.

More shuffling. And then.

Hilda appears at the den’s threshold. Even in the dim illumination of the one working lamp in the parlor, Zelda can see Hilda has eschewed most of the clothing she herself had recommended. Hilda’s in only her vintage white bullet bra and white silk slip, leaning against the door jamb.

“You’re up,” Hilda says.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Zelda says. 

Hilda stretches and yawns. Zelda watches her triceps above her head, her ribs rising and falling. Hilda’s arms fall to her sides, and their eyes meet. Hilda looks away, giggles:

“Did you wait up to see how my date went?” Zelda swallows.

“You left your dress in the kitchen, then? Sloppy. Tacky,” Zelda over-enunciates to counteract her whisky-fuzzed brain. But Hilda giggles:

“It’s hot in here. Thought I’d have a cup of tea, wind down. Kettle’s on. Would you like a cup?” 

“No. I’ve seen that you’re home safe,” Zelda says. “That’s all I needed to know to sleep easily.”

Hilda’s eyes scan the room, pause on the mess of disemboweled lamp on the coffee table, the half-empty decanter, the melted icecubes and watered-down dregs of bourbon in Zelda’s double old-fashioned glass.

“Hmm,” Hilda says. “Is it, now?”

“Yes.” Zelda stands, stumbles a little, rights herself. And then she puffs up: “That off-brand Count Chocula seems nice enough when he’s peddling avocado toast and Japanese comic books in the light of day in front of Satan and everyone, but one never knows what he might try to get up to in the dark without his plastic fangs, alone with a pretty blonde.”

Zelda attempts to leave, but Hilda is still at the doorframe, and Hilda extends an arm across the expanse, effectively blocks.

Zelda stands there in front of Hilda’s muscled-from-kneading-bread-dough forearm, and Hilda laughs. It’s the snorting laugh that Zelda secretly loves.

“You were worried about me? And you waited up for me? And you said I’m pretty? Oh, Zelds. I could kiss you.”

Zelda swallows, panics briefly, and then brings the blade of her hand up to Hilda’s wrist on the doorframe, not aggressively but firmly attempting to buckle the joint so the arm will move and she can finally exit. But Hilda’s half wine drunk to Zelda’s three quarters whiskey drunk and so catches her hand before it makes contact and simply holds it for a moment before she brings it to her mouth, kisses each knuckle. Zelda groans and shifts her weight.

“Thank you for your concern,” Hilda says. “For the record, Cee was a perfect gentleman.” She releases Zelda’s hand, which falls limply to her side. “But. I’m not sure that’s what I wanted out of it.”

Zelda’s knuckles tingle, twitch, send electrical signals throughout her body. She says unthinkingly,

“And what did you want out of it, then?”

The kettle whistles.

Hilda half shrugs and turns toward the kitchen.

Zelda follows, entranced by white silk and unanswered questions.

Zelda vaguely perceives Hilda’s dress abandoned on a barstool, continues behind her.

Hilda pulls out two mugs from a top cabinet, and Zelda watches the play of muscles in her shoulders as she does so. Hilda doesn’t dick with loose tea tonight, just puts a bag of pre-packaged chamomile in each cup, pours the steaming water over each. She slides the mug with the cartoon of a grackle eating a French fry in a parking lot with the phrase “Do what thou wilt.” calligraphically beneath it across the island toward Zelda. Zelda cups it in her hands but doesn’t make to drink. Hilda blows on her own mug—emblazoned with a pixelated rendering of the World’s Largest Ball of Twine—before she takes a tentative sip.

“What’d you do tonight, sister?” Hilda says.

“Don’t you dare,” Zelda says.

“What—”

“Don’t turn this back on me! Did you let him—”

“Zelds. Please. Your blood pressure.”

“To heaven with my blood pressure! Did some bargain-brand approximation of a creature of the night defile—”

“Enough!” Hilda slams her mug onto the counter. “I’d only ever kissed before—”

Now Zelda slams her mug onto the counter. Maybe it’s her three-quarters whiskey drunkenness. She says,

“Damn it, Hilda. If there’s one fool for you then I am it—”

But she can’t continue for the look Hilda’s giving her. Or perhaps the look she’s perceiving that Hilda’s giving her. Either way, she’s silenced. And Hilda’s batting her eyelashes and saying,

“I’ll put up no resistance—”

Zelda quickly rounds the island, has her hands on Hilda’s half-slip covered hips.

“Do you mean that, sister?” Zelda says.

Hilda slides closer, presses her body against Zelda’s, says,

“I’ve tasted blood, and I want more.”


End file.
